


The Price of Lemons

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Because Joffrey, Belly Kink, Chubby sansa, F/M, I Don't Even Know, Porn With Plot, Romance, Sandor has a kink, Sansa plays the Game, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-01 23:01:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5224292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When poor fat Lollys Stokeworth is ejected from court by King Joffrey, Sansa hatches a plan. Sandor finds himself a very willing accomplice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price of Lemons

**Author's Note:**

> **This is pretty much weight gain kink-fic and is basically literary crack fic, so…yeah, sorry. It does include non-con-ish elements because Joffrey is Joffrey, so please heed the tags and don't continue if you think it might squick you out.** This is also a mix of book- and show-canon and AU in the fact that I'm picking and choosing which bits of either I want to include and basically ignoring all logical chronological sense. :)
> 
> Sansa is aged up for this fic.

Sandor Clegane was not often distracted from his evening meals, especially not when the King started throwing yet another tantrum: banging around cups, demanding more wine, pudding, meat on his plate. Why were his vegetables cold when he'd pushed them to the side of his plate and saved them for last? Why had the butter melted when he'd shoved it too close to the candles? Why was his wine down to dregs when he'd drained the rest of the bottle? It was easy these days to drown the little fucker out, and his ears were attuned to knowing when his sword would be needed. Tantrums were plentiful; risks to his life were sadly rare.

So on this night, in the betrothal feast when Lady Margaery sat at his side, the little bird down the table with the Imp at her right, Sandor paid little attention until the tantrum was already half-through, and Lady Lollys, who for some gods-take-him reason was sitting on his left, began to weep.

"My lady?" someone was murmuring to the fat woman, offering a kerchief, and Sandor's shoulders went around his ears, desperate to block out the sound of her crying. He had another forkful of peas in his mouth before he heard Joffrey's words raise, vibrating in the cutlery and sending the candles before him spluttering.

"Out!" he shouted, on his feet, purple in the face. "I want her out!"

Lady Lollys began to weep harder, and Sandor sighed and stabbed at another loaf of honey bread.

"Look at you." Joffrey was rounding the table, wobbling on his skinny legs that Sandor always imagined would snap like kindling, all brittle and pale and ready to burn. Joffrey still had his chalice in hand, the fucking crown he hardly ever stopped wearing slipping down over one ear. He was standing behind him now, one hand on the back of Sandor's chair for balance, grimacing at the woman sat beside him who could not look at the king, could only continue to sob into the white linen that had been offered her.

"I said _look_ ," Joffrey spat, and he grabbed Lollys's plate from beneath her, slid the few remains of her meal onto the linen, and wiped at the silver with the sleeve of her blue silk dress. Gravy bloomed across the hem, grease seeping into the strain lines on the elbow. Joffrey held the platter aloft, grabbed a hold of the lady's quivering chins, thrust her face up so she looked at him, breathing hard, pig-like, through her nose, refusing to look at her reflection. Joffrey's fingers bit into her skin and he jerked her head up, hard. "LOOK!"

She looked. Her swollen face reddened, blood rushing to the surface of her round cheeks. Some of the others wouldn't know what the twat was on about, why he'd suddenly erupted from beside his future wife and stalked down Lollys Stokeworth like she'd be next on the end of his crossbow, especially when she hadn't done anything wrong. But Sandor, unfortunately, knew better. He'd heard the little shit moan about her enough to his mother, complain over her having been invited to court _again_. It was disgusting, he said, watching her lumber in. Watching her eat until she started to labor for breath, downing goblet upon goblet of wine and cut upon cut of meat. "Limit her meals," Joffrey had commanded. "One crust of bread!" But feasts were meant to be shared, and Lollys always found more than enough on its way to her plate.

The chairs were starting to groan beneath her. Sandor heard it tonight when she sat down. He had nothing against the woman; he'd known what happened to her the day he saved the little bird from the riots (she was watching him now, Sansa Stark; he could feel her blue eyes following the movement of his fork as he shoveled peas in, hoping he'd look busy enough so the cunt king wouldn't make him be the one to drag the woman through the door).

"How much do you weigh now, Lady Stokeworth?" the king asked her, wrenching his hand from her chin and wiping it upon the clean shoulder of her gown, then across the back of Sandor's chair. "I'm only wondering how much we might wish to fetch for you at market."

There was a ripple of laughter from the crowd. Sandor still looked determinedly at his plate, buttering his bread with thick, wide strokes. He could feel the little bird's eyes on him, begging him to make the humiliation stop. Sansa Stark and her fucking compassion. It would kill her in the end, he knew. Him too, if he didn't stop feeling so compelled to obey even her fucking silent commands.

"I-I--" Lady Stokeworth began, but didn't finish, her trembling hands finally dropping the kerchief and settling in the crevice between her heavy belly and wide lap.

"You disgust me," Joffrey sneered. A weak, pale finger pointed toward the door. "Leave."

Lollys nodded. Climbed laboriously to her feet to more laughter. Trundled to the door, where it opened for her and shut behind once her waddling figure had vanished into the night.

"My love," Lady Margaery called out, smiling as though her cunt fiancé had just told the cleverest joke. She patted the empty chair beside her. "Come finish your meal."

Joffrey finally circled back to his seat, settled into it and once more picked up his fork and knife. But before he could take another bite, he announced to the assembled, "If you are not here to advise, you are here to please me." His eyes did not settle on his betrothed as he said this, but on Sansa. Sandor's fist tightened around his butter knife. Joffrey lifted his wine. "I do not want fat women in my court." He sneered, his frigid eyes clearly appraising the Stark girl's lithe form. "You may want to consider that warning, Lady Sansa."

There was another ripple of laughter, though it sounded confused; no sane man would ever call the girl fat. On the contrary, Sandor thought some extra flesh might suit her, but he had never said it out loud…at least, not that he could remember.

He looked up at her then, his little bird, and expected to see that near-brokenness, that want to shatter, but instead he saw that smile just the courtly side of mocking, the wanton flash that only he seemed to be able to find in the blue eyes, and she said, "You are very kind to think of me, your grace."

Joffrey nodded, pleased with his proclamation, and once more continued with his meal, only pausing every so often to lob a lewd remark past his betrothed and in the Stark girl's direction.

Sandor watched her for the rest of the feast, every moment between bites and long swallows of wine. Through the meat and vegetables and fruit, lemon cakes and tea. He watched as each cut of Joffrey's words resulted in another lemon cake finding its way onto Sansa's plate, and until Joffrey, frustrated but stayed, finally fell silent.

***

Once upon a time, when she was a different person, Sansa had wanted to kill her sister for ruining one of her favorite gowns. It had been an orange, she vaguely remembered, thrown at her across the breakfast table, staining the ivory silk. It had become her mourning dress, eventually, dyed black to disguise the damage, and she had never been so despairing to receive a new addition to her wardrobe.

These were happier times. Her dresses weren't fitting. Her handmaids were complaining of sore hands, the laces of her girdles and at the fronts, backs, sides of her gowns not able to be tied tight enough to keep skin from showing through. The sleeves were becoming snug around her arms. "You are growing into a woman," the most frightened maid told her (Cersei's snitch, Sansa was sure, and undoubtedly well-suited to pleasantries when a woman was growing fat). Sansa wanted to inform her she had been a woman for a considerable time now, and doubted very much that her long-ago flowering had anything to do with the new heft of her hips, her breasts, her arms, and her waist. Nor did it have much to do with the subtle softening of her once-flat stomach, only visible in the slight straining of her gowns across the midsection, the creases forming at the narrowest point of the waist. But since that first night of goading Joffrey, she had been very careful to conceal the change in habits, covert in her extra portions, and wasn't about to admit to Cersei's spy that she was fully aware of what she was doing.

The only problem was that it was getting worse before it would get better. Joffrey's remarks had not cooled; indeed, they had worsened, his criticism of her increased appetite now matched by roving eyes that clearly appreciated her increased bust. "Dog," Joffrey would spit at the end of each meal, drunk, staring at the breasts that threatened to spill from the neckline of her gown--she was nearly as buxom as Lady Margaery these days--but clearly less enamored with the increases to the rest of her body ( _Hold on to that_ , Sansa told herself). "Roll Lady Sansa to her chambers. And see that her morning meal is reduced." Joffrey's mouth twisted in the customary sneer. "If I wanted to look at fat whores I would hold court in Flea Bottom."

Sandor ground his teeth and held out an arm. Sansa's hand found its way into the fold of his elbow. There was a crease at her wrist, which Sandor was both surprised at, and surprised at having actually noticed.  He was no stranger to noticing the little bird's body, but he had never before paid particular attention to the wrists, nor the way her gown was wrinkling at the underarm as she lifted her hand and placed it on his forearm.

"Lady Sansa," Sandor rasped, reminding himself of the little bird's own vapid pleasantries.

"My lord," she said, clearly teasing him.

It was late, the Red Keep corridors empty. They met no one on the way back to her chambers, and they talked little. It wasn't until she pushed open her door that he rounded on her, squared to her, and said, "I know what you're doing, little bird."

"What I'm doing?" she said, looking up at him, her blue eyes unreadable in the dim torchlight. Her face was rounder, he thought, softer, blurred beneath a thin layer of flesh. Her chin was less pointed, her jaw less defined. She wasn't fat, not even chubby yet. Just had more padding. No less beautiful, though (his cock reminded him). Not at all. Not--

"Potatoes," he said. "Wine. All those fucking lemon cakes."

She did not start at his vulgar language.

"I find myself very hungry these days," she said.

"You think it's going to work?" he growled. "You think he's going to throw you out of court? Do I really need to tell you that it doesn't work like that? He'd kill you first."

"Perhaps he'll kill me anyway," Sansa said, her voice tight, her neck ( _delectable, soft white flesh, so much flesh_ ) straight, her chin held aloft.  "I'd much rather go to the grave without him having touched me."

"He's betrothed…" Sandor began, but even as he said it, he knew it was a fucking stupid thing to say. Finally, he settled on, "He'll starve you."

Sansa's eyebrows rose. "And you will let me starve?"

Sandor shifted uneasily to his other foot. "No," he admitted.

The door moved inward an inch. "Then I have little to worry about."

"Little bird--" Sandor began again, and Sansa stopped, paused in the doorway, her milky teats half-exposed, her dress straining at the waist, a gentle, rounded slope of stomach pushing at the front of her gown. Sandor had the sudden overwhelming urge to reach over, tug at the laces of her straining dress. Relieve the tension in the shoulders. Lift the skirt above her rounding belly and let his burnt mouth find the flesh above her sweet cunt and--

"Good night, ser," Sansa said, teasing him again (since when he had started letting her tease him?). "I will see you in the morning."

"You will?" Sandor said blankly.

"I expect I will be needing breakfast," Sansa replied, her hands running the length of her torso from beneath her swollen breasts to the curve of her hips.

Then, unexpectedly, her hand found his own torso, thicker fingers skimming the thick leather of his jerkin. He could barely feel it but he could feel himself respond, the stirrings deep down in his breeches. Fuck, she could ask for an aurochs and in the morning he'd be there with one dead at her door, and he'd be delighted to serve it to her, piece by fucking piece.

"Good night," she said again, and she retreated, the door shutting silently, finally, behind her.

***

It had been four weeks since Sandor had started stealing from the kitchens. Well, not stealing--he wasn't a fucking thief--but a combination of death threats to the kitchen maids and extra coppers in pockets made for an easy way to sneak bread and cheese up to the Lady Stark without her handmaids having noticed, with no trays or flagons to leave as evidence of her indulgence.

Though surely they were starting to notice that their efforts to reduce the lady were proving fruitless. A month and Sansa was already straining at her new gowns, the added weight no longer going to the bust but now seeming intent on finding her belly, rounding it out until she began to look as though, suspiciously, she might be with child. Sandor found her in tears one afternoon down by the cellars, and she told him that she had had to succumb to invasive examinations by Grand Maester Pycelle 'for her own good.'

"Still a maid," Pycelle had said, as though disappointed, hungry for new scandal. He'd patted her belly and said, "Water and broth," as if she could live on that alone.

"Fucking--" Sandor had begun, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm, swallowing the remainder of her tears. She was doing that a lot lately, touching him, like he didn't fucking disgust her. Like she actually _liked_ him, and wasn't just using him to fill her belly, to fulfill some death wish, to fulfill some perverse fantasy.

 _Whose fantasy_? he thought. _Hers or mine_?

There was no question, it was starting to work. Joffrey's complaints were growing louder, his threats to remove Sansa from court increasing, but the bitch queen wouldn’t let him send her away. Instead Sansa found herself at dinner, always at the Imp's side (what could Sandor do to have her moved so she could sit beside him, so he could slide morsels onto her plate, maybe onto her tongue when no one was looking, have her lips close around his fingers…?), and she also found herself growing fatter each night, her once-slim thighs plumping to fill the cushion on her chair, breasts migrating up toward her chin which was still softening, threatening to double as she looked down. Sandor felt himself thinking at least three times per day how that little fold of delectable flesh would taste between his teeth.

"They took my food away this morning," she told him the next time he found her in the corridors, in those rare few moments they were alone outside of his short, perfunctory visits to her chambers--the knocking on the door, the leaving of bread, cheese, fruit, cakes in a linen towel. "They came back after you were there and took it. They must have told Joffrey. He'll wonder where it came from."

"We need to be careful," Sandor replied in a low rumble, hovering close, bending down so his voice wouldn't carry. They were so close, his swarthy skin so near to hers pearly white, only a few scars visible on her exposed shoulders from Ser Fucking Meryn Trant's earlier attentions with the flat of his sword.

"I thought you'd say we would need to stop," Sansa breathed, obviously relieved.

"We should," Sandor admitted.

"We can't," Sansa whispered. "He hasn't threatened to touch me in a fortnight." The light in her eyes danced; for a minute she looked every bit the queen, every softening inch of her. She was chubby now, he thought. Not fat, not yet, but it wouldn't be long.

"Will you still help me?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, almost insulted that she would ever dare to doubt him.

She looked at him, and Sandor only just then realized she still had a hold on his hand, her soft fingers entwined with his calloused ones. He had been stupid, careless--one quiet set of footsteps was all that was needed before they were caught…caught… _doing what?_

"Tomorrow, the cellar," he rasped. "After dinner. You will be there."

Was it just the light or his imagination, or were her pupils wider than normal, her plump pink lips moist, slick with saliva, hanging open as though an invitation? For a mouth or a lemon cake, he couldn't tell.

"Yes," she told him, her fingers tightening, letting go. "I will."

***

They picnicked nightly after his watch had ended, by torchlight in a side chamber, dragon skulls watching them from the walls. His sword was still at the ready, Sandor prepared to spring into the main hall and pretend patrol if anyone intruded, if it was needed, but the cellar was oft deserted and they celebrated their privacy, relaxing as neither of them had done in ages.

Sansa had a lovely laugh. He couldn't remember having ever heard it before--she had had little opportunity in the company of the psychotic Joffrey, and Sandor found himself employing what few weapons he possessed to make her utter that sound over and over again. He had never considered himself a great wit but he what he lacked in the Imp's cleverness he made up for with stories, and Sansa never tired of tales he could tell her of the boy king--how Joffrey hadn't learned to use the privy until he was six, and would often piss himself at high court functions; how during sparring lessons he had fallen off the ramparts and broken his arm in at least three places.

"Maybe he hit his head," Sansa had wondered. "It would explain so much."

"No, he was a shit long before then, little bird," Sandor told her, breaking off another large chunk of cheese and pressing it into her hands in silent encouragement.

She was having trouble sitting on the floor, alternating between cross-legged and sitting with her legs folded to one side. Her bodice had grown far too tight, restricting her breathing, making eating difficult. They were only a week and half into their evening exploits and her clothing had once more grown insufficient.

"They're refusing to make me a larger gown," Sansa had told him, "nor fetch me the fabric; apparently they shall force me to walk about naked," and Sandor adjusted himself the moment she went back to her lemon cake.

As a result of her tightening gown, she was eating little, which seemed to be rather contrary to the point of them being here at all. Finally, after two nights of half-hearted attempts, she turned her plump back on Sandor.

"What?" he'd asked, finishing off his own bit of bread and tomato-laced cheese.

"Undo my laces," she commanded him.

Crumbs fell from his fingers. His cock suddenly surged, hot and huge and heavy, between his legs.

"Little bird?"

"I can't eat if I’m not comfortable," she said matter-of-factly. "I need to be comfortable."

He couldn't disagree with her there, and he wasn't about to turn down this opportunity. Who knew when it would present itself again? The fucking handmaids might turn up with a new, larger, gown tomorrow and that would be the end of her discomfort for the next few weeks at least.

So he obeyed. He did not have dainty hands, handmaid's hands. His were rough and huge and unsuited to fine silk and lacework. "I'm going to tear it," he'd told her. "I don't care," she'd replied. "Just get it off," and he nearly pressed into her right then, sought relief in her spreading backside.

His breathing was rapid as he finally undid the knotting, pulled out the laces through the top holes. She groaned as the first inches loosened, her waist expanding to fill new space. The torchlight flickered and flared in the dank dungeon breeze as he worked the laces out through the remainders, cock throbbing, wondering when she would tell him to stop. She didn't, not even when the laces finally came loose and hung limply against the linen shift, the opening sliver that bared her pale back.

She still didn't move, sitting before him, her hair tucked over one shoulder, and she was perfectly still as she watched him from the corner of her eye, her lips hanging open. The dress was still moving, sliding down her round shoulders. Seeking release along with her linen shift. Sandor held his breath, and thought he was imagining it for a moment, but he wasn't--she was panting, too.

Slowly, steadily, carefully ( _do not fly, little bird)_ , he pressed the back of one finger to the nape of her neck, just the thick point of one knuckle. Waited for her to protest, to freeze. She did nothing except continue to watch him, her rounding face pale as moonlight, the color in her cheeks visible even in this light. She did not protest as he ran the length of the slight dent of her spine, each bone only just able to be felt, and dipped it into the cleft at the top of her wide backside.

He took a shaky breath. Eased himself back before he would explode. Kicked the basket forward a foot, closer to her empty hands.

"Eat," he told her.

She turned back toward him and obeyed.

By the time she was finished, she was groaning, satiated and oh-so-full. "Lemon cakes!" she had exclaimed, as though she hadn't already eaten enough for a lifetime in the past month alone, and continued to consume each one, even the one she had set aside for him but he had refused, having told her he had no stomach for sweet things. He had watched it disappear between her pink lips, a crumb clinging to her mouth. Had watched her lick it off with the tip of her just-as-pink tongue.

She had eaten too fast. It was his fault; he had encouraged her. He badly needed to return to his chambers so he could relieve himself; he felt as though his cock might fall off, and the sooner she was finished, the sooner he might seek his relief. But now she was sitting there before him, hands on her rounded stomach, wincing as though in pain. She hiccupped and pressed her hands into the softness below her navel--the widening dent visible through the fabric of her gown.

"Pardon me," she said, stifling a burp into her sagging sleeve. She slumped back onto her hands, her full body lolling out before him like a ripe fruit, fertile and rounded and sweet, begging to be plucked. Did she know what he was doing to him? Didn't she see? He felt like a broadsword, straight from the forge. Looked like one, too. She _had_ to know, even someone as naïve as her.

"You know," she said, pawing at her softness happily, her rounded face smiling. "My mother was fat."

Sandor frowned at her, remembering Lady Catelyn of Winterfell as anything but.

"When she was younger. My aunt told me. She had a fondness for sweet things." She rolled her belly between her fingers, grabbing idly at a wide handful. "It must run in the family."

"You might have better reason," Sandor said, surprised he could find his voice at all.

"Yes," Sansa admitted. "It's not just that, though." She ran her palm along the roundness of her belly, down the curve of her plump thigh. _Let me leave_ , Sandor silently urged her.

"It's something else," she admitted. Was she blushing again? He wasn't sure if it was the light, but she certainly did look pink, her creamy skin touched with raspberry at the vanishing cheekbones. "I think," she admitted, looking down, the double chin appearing, "I might like it."

 _Fuck_. He was sweating. He could feel it on his upper lip, even the burnt side, beading beneath the growth of beard.

"It's comforting," she said, stifling another burp into the pillowy tops of her heaving breasts. "And solid. For the first time in my life, I feel…strong."

She flinched with another hiccup, then said, "Sandor."

He started at the sound of his name. She had said his _name_. Had she before? He couldn't remember. He didn't think so. So few people called him that--the Imp called him Clegane, which he hated--Clegane was his brother, not him. The Hound was only Joffrey's dog. _Only Sansa should call me Sandor_ , he thought. _Everyone else can go fuck themselves._

"Little bird?" he said, realizing that his nickname--once meant to grate, now only said with affection--had become a misnomer. His little bird wasn't so little anymore.

"Could you?" she asked, and she turned her back on him once more.

He had no clue what she wanted until she reached back with plump hands and tugged down the shoulders of her dress over thick arms, leaving herself from breast to hip in only her linen shift. Her bodice hung from her front like a shed skin. Then she reached for his huge, calloused hands, brought them around her front, making him crawl forward. Scooted until her soft back was flush against his stomach, his erection surging hot against her backside. But she either did not notice or ignored it, and instead moved his hands across her front, pressing them to the softness of her belly, through the give of the inches of flesh, to the hardness of the food beneath.

"It helps," she murmured on a little breath, "to knead it a bit, like dough. It makes it feel-- _oh_."

Sandor was already at work with both hands, massaging her distended roundness, rolling it between his hands. First along the upper, over her full stomach, beneath her heavy breasts. Skimming his palms from the handles at her sides across to where the linen stretched over her navel. And finally, both of them panting, inching lower, beneath the fold of her belly, weighing the heaviness of it in his large palm and sliding a thumb across the crease that divided it from her mound.

He groaned into her ear. She whimpered. He ran his thumb across again, the nail skimming the fold. His other hand found her large breast and held it, folding her hard nipple in the crease of his palm, running a rough finger across it, flicking it, hearing her gasp.

 _"Sandor_ ," she whispered.

" _Fuck_ \--" Sandor began, but it was too late. He couldn't keep from hooking her neck with one arm, pressing her back against him, feeling her soft arse nestle around his throbbing cock. Couldn't help but thrust into it once, twice. Couldn't help but feel his seed spill in his breeches, against her shift, against the parting of her dress.

" _Fuck!"_ he said again, backing away, still panting and fumbling for something to hide the damp spot in his breeches, finding nothing but the basket, which had been kicked too far to reach.

Sansa looked back at him. He was expecting any sort of horrified expression -- hurt, shock, anger, tears, anything to tell him that he had done was _wrong_ , that he had just taken _advantage of her_ , he was just as much of a beast as his _fucking brother_ \--

But then she smiled. Bit her lip. Looked straight at the damp patch on his crotch.

"Tomorrow?" was the only thing she said, palming her heavy breast through her shift, her erect nipples still straining at the linen.

"Gods yes," Sandor replied, and like a lad in the first throes of lust, felt himself start to harden again.

***

Their routine settled quickly after that night, with Sansa falling upon him as soon as they were alone, the door sealed, having left dinner ten minutes apart. Sandor was last--he had to stop by the kitchens. The kitchen maid was starting to give him cheek: "They're starting to notice things gone missing," she'd hissed from her considerably smaller height, staring up at him through narrowed eyes.

He had handed her the customary coin. "Then go buy more," he told her, and strode away with the bundle under one heavily-muscled arm.

Now, Sansa leaned back against him, her laces undone, her sides swelling out into his framing knees, as she unwrapped the bundle on her diminishing lap.

"No lemon cakes," she said sadly.

"Aren't you sick of those?" Sandor grumbled.

"Never!" she replied as if scandalized.

Sandor snorted. "There's strawberry pie," he said. "A big one, too. See?"

She hummed to herself, undoubtedly more pleased than she was letting on, and tucked in.

The stone of the wall was cold against his back, but Sansa was so warm against his front. They had been doing this so long now that he thought he might not notice the differences, as gradual as it was. But he could: how he had to spread his knees wider to accommodate the growing girth of her hips, the roll of softness that now encircled her waist; how her breasts, heavy but up-pointing beneath her shift, had begun to rest on her stomach when she sat. He rested his hands on her stomach as she ate, stroking circles over the shift, every so often reaching up to cup a breast, expecting protests, never hearing anything but a gasp or a little choke as she accidentally inhaled a bite of her second dinner.

They talked little as it seemed both unnecessary and impractical. Instead, he watched her in the torchlight, the movement of her lips--sensual instead of messy, active instead of greedy--and every so often would lift a morsel to her mouth as she leant back into him, her hand closing over the one that remained on her stomach, helping him rub small circles into her itching skin. After she had finished the ever-increasing portions (bread, cheese, tureen of soup, more bread, suckling pig, partridge, pigeon pie, strawberry pie, honey cakes, Dornish sour to finish), he would continue his massage, taking full liberties as he pressed himself into her and her soft, gently rocking encouragement.

One night, the night her shift seemed to have finally surrendered, already having separated so far that nearly her entire back was bared when he slipped her tight dress from her shoulders, she shrugged from it entirely, leaning against him naked from the hip (belly? Arse? It was hard to tell now) up, and his mouth went dry as he looked down at her pale breasts, the erect nubs of her nipples, ran his fingers along the pink and purple lines that striped her rolling sides. Tucked his little finger into her navel. She gave a slight breath, a near-silent moan, and before she had even looked at the food he had brought her, turned in his arms, clasped both plump hands about his face, and kissed him.

It was the stupid stuff of her fucking songs, but Sandor had to admit to himself that he had dreamed of this. She had spent so many nights with her back pressed against him that sometimes he couldn't help but think that she was imagining he was someone else, maybe her Knight of the fucking Flowers. Was closing her eyes and imagining fine, dainty hands lifting each cake in turn to her waiting lips. Imagining bald skin beneath the jerkin; fine, lean muscle; a penchant for laces and Lord Renly's arse.

Now he knew better. Now he felt the dull trail of her fingers on the burnt side of his face, only pausing once when she withdrew, looked at him with her darkened eyes, and whispered, her fingers gentle, "Does it hurt?"

Sandor could only make an inarticulate sound in reply.

She smiled, her cheeks dimpling. Kissed him again. With tongue.

She hadn't eaten since dinner an hour before but she still tasted of salt, wine, honey cakes. She kissed him like she knew what she was doing--like he was one of her fucking lemon cakes--devouring him, wanting to be devoured. Sandor had never been one for kissing but he was starting to understand the appeal, starting to understand the things it led to and how is nearly distracted in the most pleasant of ways to the fact that Sansa was straddling him, her legs (surprisingly strong--from carrying around the extra weight?) like a cushioned vice each side of his thighs, how she ground down against him--

She pulled away, panting, her chin doubling demurely.

"Seven hells," Sandor swore.

Her fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck.

"You like this," she said, pressing her full belly and hot breasts against him with a wantonness Sandor had thought she'd never even dreamed of, never mind longed to act on. "Don't you?"

"Yes," Sandor admitted, breathlessly.

"I do, too," she said, and kissed him again.

It was short this time, a prelude. She spun back around, still so graceful, and collapsed back against him, nearly winding him. Not for the first time, Sandor wondered how much she might weigh. Not much less than he did, he reckoned--while she had always been lithe before, she had never been short. A stone or two more and she would be near to catching up. Fuck him if he could think how long it had been since it had all started, since her slender body began to grow plump, since Joffrey harangued her in court in front of everyone. It had all seemed like one long fucking dream.

 

She began to eat again, rapidly, heated now, while Sandor massaged her breasts, bent to taste her neck. One hand began to migrate south, hike up her skirts which were already to her knees. Reach past the roundest part of her swelling belly and graze a finger across her slit.

She gasped, shuddered, and stopped. Looked up at him with liquid eyes, a honey cake half-way to her mouth.

"Eat," he rasped.

She took a few more dainty bites, finishing the rest of her cake. Unlike Lollys Stokeworth, Sansa Stark never set aside courtly manners on her quest for sustenance. She never took her eyes from his face, either, instead watching him, still breathing heavily between swallows as Sandor ran the finger back and forth, felt the long-buried muscles twitch beneath the flesh of her stomach, spasm beneath his palm.

She was glorious. Soft and swollen and the hair smooth beneath his rough fingers. He was not used to pleasuring women but she seemed appreciative enough, her expression undoubtedly lustful (or a close approximation of it).

"Eat," he commanded again, and his hand edged between her slickened lips.

She didn't appear to hear him. Instead, her hand flew up, grasped at the fabric of his shirt, and pulled it so tightly that he heard stitches snap, but fuck if he cared. Her breasts bounced as she bucked forward against his fingers, nearly forcing him inside of her, his hand only evading her entrance by a half of an inch.

"Your maidenhead," Sandor grumbled, nearly past the point of caring.

"Fuck my maidenhead," Sansa said, and his large fingers slipped inside.

 Like the dog he was, Sandor was eager, no, _desperate,_ to obey. It was not a desire, nor a want, it was a _need_ , like food, like wine, like killing. If his fingers weren't in her sweet, slick cunt something else would have to be, and he wasn't quite sure she'd be ready for that yet. He thrust into her slowly, steadily, wary of hurting her though no pain seemed to be coming. Instead, she bent forward, toward the basket, and took a loaf of bread, tore it between her hands, held them to herself with the intention of eating but so lost in the rhythm of his fingers inside of her and his knuckle against her nub that she only held the broken loaf to her chest, the soft insides pressed to her shining skin.

He grunted, thrust against her as she thrust against him, seeking friction, pleasure in his hand, voice, fingers. She had managed one bite of bread but it still hung between her lips, wilting, uneaten. Her chin lolled against her neck, rocking back and forth with the force of him, of his one finger, now two, sliding inside, stretching her, feeling her tight, wet, around him.

Suddenly, finally, Sansa gave out a surprised, "Oh!" and the bread fell from her lips, lodged between her breast and belly. She stretched out, board-straight, looking almost thin again in the loosest of senses, and collapsed back into him, shuddering. Sandor reached down into her soft bottom and found himself, pumped twice, and joined her in release.

They sat for a moment, panting against each other, each of Sandor's hands slick with cum, his and hers. Sansa still trembled with aftershocks.

"Well," she said distractedly when they had both come down, eyeing the basket and red from her forehead to the swell below her navel. She smiled at him a tremulous smile and reached for the fallen bread. "I think I may have regained my appetite."

***

Sandor Clegane couldn't think that he'd ever found large women attractive, so he didn't know what it was about Sansa's softening form that made him set his dinners aside and watch her eat (subtly, sliding hidden portions from the napkin in her lap and between her lips) with a dry mouth. He had never felt elation at the chair groaning in protest as Lady Lollys Stokeworth settled in beside him. He had never palmed himself beneath the table when her dress strained and creaked as she bent forward in her chair to reach yet another serving of buttered potatoes with goat cheese, or bucked against the wood at the sudden appearance of yet another of her chins.

But he did not find it disgusting, either--not like the Imp, who could be heard mocking Lady Stokeworth even more now that the woman wasn't at court and had nary been seen at the Red Keep since Joffrey had thrown her out.

He supposed he found it comforting, like Sansa had said. He couldn't help but imagine coming back from a hard day's training, grating hours having to listen to the brat king make yet another faction of his kingdom miserable at court, and settle into bed with his head resting on that living cushion of pillowy softness, to feel soft, womanly fingers slide through his hair, down the good side of his face, to his chest, to his belt. He thought that someone in his past might have been fat, someone who cared for him once--a nursemaid, maybe. Short lived, undoubtedly, once his brother found out who had been treating him with kindness.

It was different with Sansa. Achingly different. His mouth couldn't find the words to explain it, but to understand, one only needed to look downward. It wasn't just that he wanted to fuck her, either. Don't understand wrongly, he most certainly _did_ want to fuck her, but the sensuality of her growing body, the way she would lock eyes with him across the table, lift another lemon cake to her lips, every trace of naiveté gone--

"Excuse me," Sandor found himself saying at more dinners than not, before he hastened to the privy.

"You haven't come prepared," Sansa had pouted, already stripped to what had once been called a waist, when he joined her later. "I suppose you can manage twice in one night?" she said, and pressed her hand to his breeches.

But Sandor's dreams and plans of their eventual, inevitable, and full-bodied fucking were postponed the one night he reached the cellars before her, and thank the Seven he did, because he could not think what would have happened if Sansa had stowed inside, already undoing the straining laces of her dress, and literally stumbled upon the Imp, who was naked and in a heated embrace with a dark-haired whore.

"The fuck are _you_ doing here?" he had roared, and the Imp rushed to his feet, tipping as he tried to pull back on his breeches, Sandor's torch sending comical shadows against the wall.

"What does it look like I am doing?" the dwarf had replied, while his whore buried her face and laughter into a discarded gown. "Am I to assume your own intentions are perfectly pure? Leave us, Clegane. I was not finished."

Sandor literally ran into Sansa coming down the stairs.

" _Now what?_ " she whispered. She was pink-faced with exertion, her flesh still moving a full second after their impact, the heft of her stomach nearly pressing into his groin, but not closely enough.

Sandor was at a loss. "I don't know," he growled, miserable.

The idiot king gave him an answer the next day. Much to Sansa's consternation, Joffrey had begun to notice her again. For the moment, at least, and just this moment, it seemed to work in their favor…Lady Sansa needed exercise, he had said (though not in such kind words). The Hound was to see that the lady walked back and forth to the Gate of the Gods each day."It's either that or I have a fat head on my wall. I suppose it might keep for longer with more flesh for the crows to consume."

Sansa placed a hand to stay his cursing on their way to the opposite corner of the city, afraid they'd be overheard. "Don't worry about me," she told him. "We'll get to be alone again." She scoffed, then said under her breath so quietly that even he could barely hear, "What an idiot."

After the riots, Sansa had been wary for months of leaving the Red Keep, yet at the same time realizing that she was no safer within the walls than she was outside of them. Now that Sandor was at her side, she knew she needn't fear the commoners--even without him, she rather thought they might not know her from anyone else, anyway. She had made some effort to dress demurely, covering her bright hair with plaincloth and wearing her drabbest gown (little choice there, as it was the only one that fit her). Coupled with her increased bulk, if she even ran into courtiers she often saw daily, there was no doubt even they would have difficulty recognizing her. And the threat of assault…well, she doubly needn't worry accompanied by the king's Hound, though she doubted Joffrey would mourn her.

They made it to the gate without incident, checked in with the Gold Cloaks as Joffrey required, and started making their considerably slower way back. She carried his empty satchel, and he took her through the side streets, stopped by every third shop in the Street of Flour for pie, bread, honey and raspberry cakes (lemon cakes, she learned sadly, had gone out of season). Cut through the stink of the Fishmonger's Square by the Mud Gate and collected smoked trout, through the cheesemongers in Pilgrim's Alley for a wheel of fatty sheep's cheese. Most of the mongers said nothing to the pair, betrayed no disgust for Sansa's swollen body coupled with such a pretty face, especially not with the King's dog at her side. A few of the others, those less cold, pushed the goods across to her like grandparents indulging a spoiled child. Each time Sansa thanked them with a sparkling smile, folding the bulging satchel closed and trying to make it comfortable at her equally bulging side. And as they left them, Sansa heard Sandor make what were undoubtedly threats that if the merchants told anyone that they had been there, he would kill them.

"Size is power," Sansa remarked as he took the satchel from her at last, draping it awkwardly around his armor and beneath his cloak.

"It is indeed, little bird," he replied, and pushed her onward.

The guards at the gate to the Red Keep seemed pleased at Sansa's obvious exertion, the redness of her face and the sun-hot sheen to her skin, put there by Sandor, who had insisted on rushing the last half mile to make up for time lost in the markets of King's Landing. Sansa could still feel herself wobbling after she'd come to a stop, and she caught one of the guards eyeing her breasts beneath her traveling cloak, the belly below.

They did not go back into the castle; instead, they went their separate ways after the gate, and met twenty minutes later beneath the heart tree in the godswood, for the first time in what seemed far too long, in silence and completely alone.

"Further in, girl," Sandor said gruffly as Sansa shucked her cloak beneath the heart tree. He pressed his large hand to her soft back, urging her beneath the canopy of the wood.

Only once they reached even further seclusion did she finally turn on him, see all airs of guard and protector drop, and rush to undo the buckles and fastenings that kept the armor in place on his huge frame. They were clumsy, undressing each other, four hands scrambling for purchase, Sandor's less skilled now, more urgent, as he undid the loose lacing (Cersei appeared to have given up and bought the girl a dress several sizes too large at last), pushed her gown to the grass. She was naked beneath it but for her smallclothes, and in a second she was divested of that, too, and standing before him, finally, in pale sunlight, as naked as her first name day and considerably larger than her last.

"Fuck me," Sandor growled in both appreciation and command, and she laughed. She finally pushed off his plate, and then with less effort than he expected pulled his mail over his head as he bent down to take a large breast into his mouth. He fell to his knees before her still in his breeches, his burnt mouth on her teat, his hand working at her already slick cunt.

Years ago Sansa might have felt guilt at what they were about to do beneath the godswood trees, but now she knew better; surely love (was that what this was, love?) was better than killing; sex purer than prayers for the destruction of her enemies; lust more honest than hate. Surely there was nothing more right than this.

Sandor for his part couldn't help but think of the Seven he didn’t believe in, and one of them in particular. Sansa was the Maiden as he pulled her down in the grass, pale body spread along his cloak, moss and mulch in her shining hair. He had never seen a fat Maiden but he reckoned someone ought to start a commission: Sansa Stark in stained glass, flowers in her hair, body opulent, fleshy, a promise of fertility, of pleasure, of needs met and wants fulfilled. If he would worship anyone, he would worship her.

He had not seen her naked before despite the opportunity provided by the bastard king, but had keenly imagined it before many a time, and many a time after: white smooth skin, hard over the stomach, the narrow flare of the hips, breasts. The thinness of the arms and shoulders. The jut of her clavicle spoke of a fine bone structure beneath and not an ounce of fat anywhere unfashionable, despite Joffrey's deluded demands. A little bird in voice and body, weak and breakable.

She was not weak, not anymore. He could feel the muscle in her thighs, stronger than ever, as she mounted him, pushed his breeches down his hips, legs with plump, hungry hands. The weight of her stomach soft and smothering against the hardness of his. The graze of her nipples against his chest as she bent forward, her breasts having finally lost the race with her belly for prominence. Her hands found his shoulders again, her grip even stronger. She trembled as she lifted herself up, moved herself into position like she knew what she was doing, like she'd studied this in depth, and finally, breathtakingly, _fucking-miracle-fuck-me-fuck-me-FUCK-ME_ , impaled herself on him.

"Seven hells." Sandor shuddered, and Sansa rested her forehead against his burnt cheek, overcome. His hands ran the length of her back, circles across the swell of flesh, the swell of her wide hips and the swell above it, the rounding out each side of her former waist. Reached down and took a firm hold of her soft backside. Pulled her forward. All the way.

Sansa gasped, rocked, looked like she might topple over. He held her firm and she collected herself, braved a smile at him.

"Fuck," Sandor swore in frustration, and her smile fell away.

"What?" she said.

"Moon tea," he said. "Reckon I'll be able to smuggle that out of the kitchen? Don't think so, little bird."

"Did you hear about Lady Stokeworth?" Sansa asked.

He frowned at her questioningly.

"She gave birth to a bastard months ago," she said. "That's the rumour. No one knew a thing about it. No one could tell."

She began to move, and Sandor officially stopped caring about Lollys Stokeworth, Joffrey Baratheon, moon tea, and every other fucking thing on the planet except the exquisite feel of Sansa Stark's soft flesh enveloping him and her cunt tight around his cock.

She was out of breath in a short while, slowing down, so Sandor rolled her over, her back on the ground, and plunged into her, lost in her softness, enveloped in it. _Cream_ , he thought as he licked at her nipples, the white skin of her breasts. _Strawberries_ as he ran his fingers across the stretch marks that fanned across her wide, womanly hips. _Honey_ as he reached down beneath her rolling belly and felt her slick against his hand.

Then thought nothing except of the feel of bread between fingers as he plugged Sansa's mouth against her screams. Nothing again as he raced, pumping frantically, without care, without worry, without rhythm, into her sweet clenching cunt. And finally the purest, sweetest, most divine nothing, the nothing of death, as he finally came inside of her.

He rolled off of her, breathing hard but not nearly as hard as she was. She was still flat on the ground, panting around a bite of bread. She chewed it thoughtfully, then began to laugh.

"Fuck off," he growled, but he couldn't help but smile.

"I'm sorry," she said. "But bread? Really?"

His large hand smoothed over her belly, jiggled the fluid fat beneath her navel, above her sweetness.

"Couldn't have you waste away, could we?" he said.

"Absolutely not," she agreed, and bent up to kiss him again.

She made short work of her lunch. "Sex" --she whispered the word; the confidence she had had in the act reduced to embarrassment when made to recount it after-- "must give me an appetite."

Sandor looked uneasily at the shadows of the trees on the ground, gauging the position of the sun.

"Better hurry," he said, and when he looked up, the remnants were already gone.

They ran into Joffrey, Ser Meryn leering at his side, on the way into the castle. The king looked Sansa up and down with the plainest of contempt on his face and Sandor's fingers twitched for his sword.

"Red in the face at least," Joffrey said. "It must be doing you some good. Mind I suppose you'd be winded walking up these stairs." He looked up at Sandor, his ferret face small and punchable. "You will go again tomorrow, Hound."

"But your grace--" Sansa began to protest.

"Take her to her room," Joffrey said, disgusted, and flicked them away with girlish fingers.

Sandor left her at her door, not saying anything, everything feeling inadequate. He could still smell her on his fingers.

He bowed stiffly as she pushed the door open.

"Until tomorrow," Sansa said, her hands resting on her full belly, beneath her heavy, lolling breasts.

"Tomorrow," Sandor agreed.

"What one must suffer for beauty," Sansa said, and closed the door before he could even think to laugh.

***

They walked, ate, fucked more days than not. The days after missed afternoons (court functions, the rare days that ran with rain), she was gluttonous in the markets, ordering more than usual, increases on her already increased portions.

The exercise was plainly not working to reduce her figure, and Sandor had to grab hold of his sword to keep himself from pressing a hand against her backside as he walked her through the city. In her favor was the fact that she had grown fitter, the journey to the opposite side of King's Landing and back no longer winding her, even when she had to hurry to keep up with Sandor's longer strides. But while she was fitter, she had most definitely grown much fatter.

"I suppose I should stop eventually," Sansa said wonderingly, eyes focusing on nothing, as she finished her tenth honey cake in the godswood. She was leaning forward, an elbow propped up on one dimpled knee, the other leg on the ground, bent at a slight angle. Her pregnant-looking tum swelled onto her lap, hiding a goodly portion of her plump thighs. Her breasts sat atop it, now looking comparatively small, but still round and white and delicious to suck on.

"When?" Sandor asked, not sure he would like this turn in their conversation. He was still dressing, re-fastening his armor over his mail.

"When he lets me go," Sansa replied.

"And when will that be, little bird?" Sandor replied, trying not to despair. "And where will you go?"

"Where will _we_ go?" she corrected him, and he nodded, _of course_.

"I don't know," she admitted with a sigh, then steered conversation back to Joffrey. "He's been harassing me more lately," she continued, as if Sandor hadn't noticed the japes, the taunting, the shouting over the tables at meals. "Perhaps he is about to bend."

"Or snap," Sandor said, securing his left gauntlet.

"He might ask me to his rooms," Sansa said. She chewed on her lip. Her empty hand reached around her belly, stroked it fondly, up and down the moon-like curve.

"I'll kill him," Sandor spat.

"No," Sansa said, hefting her belly in her hand, watching its bulk fall, shiver, still, like water. "I will."

***

If the taunts had come from anyone else, Sansa might have allowed herself to enjoy the teasing, relish it. How Sandor would creep between her legs and drag his hot, wet lips down the curve of her stomach, and she would watch him, mouth agape, until she could only see the top of his head and hear him rumble against her mound, "Oh, I appear to have lost sight of you." How he would run his huge, rough hands over the roundness of her full stomach and grab a hold of the rolls at her side, tickling her until she squeaked and complained that she was about to throw up. How he would bet her that she couldn't eat just that _little_ bit more, daring her to prove him wrong, which she always did, happily.

But Joffrey did not tease. He threatened. And she was starting to wonder if her grand plan was about to come back in her face.

"Tell me, Lady Sansa," Joffrey spat over the table, at another dinner where Sansa was given only water and melon, sitting at the end of the table, other plates out of reach. "How does one grow fat on only air, exercise, and water?"

"It's my northern blood, your grace," Sansa said. "We are built for cold winters."

"Even your body is a traitor," Joffrey said. His jaw clenched, his chin wobbled, and for a moment, Sansa wished, dreamed, hoped that this would be the end of it, that he would throw her out, that she could go _home_ \--if not Winterfell, then somewhere else--anywhere but here. Essos, maybe. The Free Cities. Sandor spoke little about it, was careful not to stoke the fire of her hope, but he was planning for it, she knew. Storing money away, making plans, back-up plans. He was more careful, brighter and more cunning than anyone would give him credit for.

Unlike Joffrey, who couldn't see his Hound fucking his former betrothed right beneath his nose.

"Do you reckon that's it, then?" Sandor asked as they lay against each other in the godswood again one afternoon. "Northern blood? It's all coming on fast. Even King Robert took a few years."

Sansa ignored the question. "Lemon cakes must be nearly in season again," she said instead, distracted by ghosts of cakes past, cakes present, cakes yet to come, dancing about above her head.

How many had she eaten now? Hundreds? Thousands? Certainly closer to the latter if she counted pies, honey cakes, fudge. Rich pastries dripping with whipped cream and brandy. Delicate biscuits that bloomed into butter on her tongue. Meats and cheeses and fresh, hot bread that found its way to each part of her body, clung to the insides of her soft, thick thighs, added inches to her waist and hips until her arms now rested at an angle at each side, rounded out her belly and stuck to the underside, weighing it down, hanging over the tight, clinging cloth of her smallclothes.

Sometimes she would strip when the handmaids left her. Watch herself in the looking glass and try to see what Sandor would see. She had never thought she would like this, this Sansa in a different form. Thought she would give in to her mother's own self-loathing and restrictions on her diet, see in the food only the potential for unloveliness, an eternity of spinsterhood or a bad match. Of course, her mother would have been unhappy in her choice of a partner, but her family was dead, so she supposed it mattered little what they would think.

It only mattered what they thought, these twin Sansa's, looking at each other in the mirror, running plump hands from the rounded face, feeling the cheeks plump beneath fat fingers, where it looked like she had squirreled food away for later. Down a still-graceful neck into rounded shoulders, where fat bubbled beneath the armpits. Arms that were round and large and betrayed no increase in muscle beneath, even though Sansa was sure they'd grown stronger. They always strained her gowns now, even the ones that still fit across the belly, making her wish she could wander about naked, just like she had taunted Sandor with in those early days of his encouragement.

Her breasts were very large now, a size she would have killed for when she was thin. They were heavy and lofty, more than she could grasp in a hand, her nipples hard as she grazed her thumbs across them, worked her hands beneath them and lifted.

She had deep red marks on her hips, belly, backside from her strained smallclothes. Lighter stripes of red and purple spidered up her sides--she had enjoyed watching the progression of them from her hips, up her waist, crawling across her lower belly until the flesh that hung below her navel was striped with pearly red welts. She was starting to get them around her navel now, fresh marks a starburst around the deep recess into which she could fit a walnut or, she had found out, a lemon cake.

Her hips no longer fit in most chairs without overhanging the sides, and chairs with arms were becoming a tight squeeze. Her thighs met all the way to the knees, pressed into each other, up into her mound, making even walking just that slightest bit pleasurable. Finally, her still-fine calves tapered into plump feet, just the slightest sinewy muscle visible across her shins.

Sandor worshiped every inch of her, and always worshiped each new inch added every passing day.

It was hard to be happy at King Joffrey's court, but she would take what had been given her, and try to keep her fervor to herself. But one day she must have slipped, annoyed him, perhaps at last just proven far too fat, because one day, one evening after Margaery had gone to visit an ailing cousin in Highgarden and was to be gone for the foreseeable future, Joffrey sat Sansa in Margaery's place at his side and was attentive the entire evening, playing the courtly boy Sansa had thought she loved in the earliest days of their courtship, plying her with wine, with second and third helpings, with almost  as many cakes as she could eat. Lemon cakes again. Her favorite.

 _Maybe it's poisoned_ , Sansa thought uneasily, shifting, trying to determine whether or not she felt lightheaded, queasy. Perhaps a bit nauseated, but she was often lately, eating far too much at nearly every meal.

She tried to meet Sandor's eyes but was careful not to be caught, and was left little time for exchanged glances. The few times she did brave a look at him he was scowling at his meal, and clearly had been drinking too much wine.

"Thank you for your attentions, your grace," Sansa told the king when the meal drew to a close. She tried to sit up straight, unsure whether to minimize or maximize the swell of her full tum, what he would do at the sight of either.

"Oh," Joffrey said, the familiar cool tone finding his words, "are we finished?"

He snapped his fingers and another tray appeared, presented itself in front of Sansa. Lemon cakes. At least another two dozen of them.

"Your grace?" Sansa said.

"Go on, then," Joffrey said. "Lemon cakes. Your favorite."

Tentatively, achingly, and trying not to tremble, Sansa reached out and lifted a cake to her lips. Tried not to be seen to sniff as she inhaled. It smelled fine, exactly like the ones she had eaten with her tea just minutes ago. What had Sandor taught her about poisons? She couldn’t remember.

Joffrey's voice was as hard as steel, ringing just as loud. " _Eat_."

She obeyed, took a bite, was relieved to find it tasted normal. It disappeared between her lips. She did not take another.

"What did I say?" Joffrey said, and Sansa took another.

The court was watching her, some tittering, some horror-struck. But the first two cakes finished, Sansa refused to give them the satisfaction of her embarrassment. Instead, she hummed appreciatively, trying to ignore the stretching ache in her stomach, and took one in each hand, began to eat faster, limiting the time between bites and swallows to fractions of a second.

The cakes were gone in five minutes. She pushed the tray forward when she finished and leaned back in her chair, her hands on her painful stomach, and stifled a burp into her considerable cleavage with a demure, "Pardon me."

"Go to your room," Joffrey said, face uglier than usual, twisted with revulsion. "If you want to eat, you will eat."

For a moment, Sansa thought she had done it--won the battle, won the war. But Joffrey's disgust had changed now, that look of sick pleasure curling his smile, narrowing his eyes.

"Your handmaids will see to it," he said, nearly purring, hate hard in his eyes. "You will eat your fill, my lady. And then some. And then we will see how intent you are on mocking me."

***

Joffrey got his wish; Sansa stuffed herself the first few days of her confinement, and spent the afternoons, evenings, mornings throwing up every morsel into her chamber pot. The king visited himself, just to make sure reports were correct, but stepped back, sneering, when Sansa offered to show him the evidence.

"You disgust me," he said, and skittered away through her chamber door.

But whatever he was doing--trying to break her, undoubtedly, to torture the love of food right out of her with endless feasts, tray upon tray upon tray coming up with the kitchens, her table groaning with more food before she could finish the last--was working. She was losing weight. She lamented the loss of her bulk, of her strength, as she bent over the pot and threw all that work away, sick on too much food.

Most of all she lamented the loss of Sandor. She hadn't seen him since that dinner with the tray of lemon cakes, hadn't heard his voice since they'd fucked the day before. She wasn't as hungry in his absence. Her life lacked light, lacked laughter and joy and physical pleasure found in his hands, lips, voice. She missed his vulgarity and his gruff teasing. And frankly, she missed his cock.

Two months of her confinement passed. Her mind churned constantly, worried for the state of the world outside, worried that during her imprisonment she would lose yet another person she loved. But there was only one person left in the world now, and she heard nothing from the handmaids at Joffrey having lost his dog, so assumed that he was safe. And of course, she supposed, if _she_ was not dead, Sandor would have no reason to be. Joffrey cut Sandor with words; he would never dare try and pose a physical threat to someone so vicious and large. And Sandor could hold his own against Blount and Trant, without question.

But that did not stop the anxiety that flared each time her handmaids unlocked the door and brought in another tray of far too much food. Sansa's stomach groaned. She nearly shouted at her, Cersei's spy. Nearly spat at her to take it away. But she had no energy for it, didn't want to spoil the role of sweet mistress she had tried to adopt in exchange for information of the outside that was still unforthcoming.

"Milady," the handmaid said, sliding the tray onto the table and disappearing out into the corridor to fetch the puddings.

Sansa sighed, sat on the edge of her bed, not hungry, and unfolded the linen napkin.

Froze. Held the linen up to the sunlight.

In the corner there was a rough figure drawn in charcoal. A small black bird, its wings open in flight.

His rasping voice was so clear in her mind it was like he was there in that room with her, enveloping her, his huge hands soothing her angry, diminishing stomach: _Little bird_.

The maid reappeared and Sansa smudged the drawing with her thumb. Settled the napkin in her lap and rubbed at her belly, which grumbled hungrily in reply.

She thanked the maid, suddenly ravenous, and tucked in.

She kept everything down after that. Her hunger returned with a vengeance, and soon after, so did her fat. The weight she had lost in two months reappeared in one, and after another week it brought companions to her swelling hips and belly. Her breasts were prouder, rounder than before, her face soft and sinking beneath her fingers. She was not lost in fat, she had not lost her beauty to the swelling. Instead it made her look younger, somehow, like a milk maid, fattened on cream and rich farm fare, spending days in pastures and fresh air instead of a tower overlooking the rank city, starved of sunlight.

She took joy where she could: in her bed with her fingers, in the few books in her possession, which she somehow found more interesting, richer and more inventive, on the third reading.

Most of all she took it in food. It was an excellent year for it, the fruit the best she'd ever tasted, the cold of coming winter finishing the harvest with extra sweetness.  All meat was cooked to perfection, falling from the bone. The lemon cakes especially were divine, the bitter of the zest cut through with butter and cream and what must have been the slightest change in recipe that made the flavors sing on her tongue.

She was lolling in bed, finishing a tray of these lemon cakes in a very tight dress that Lady Stokeworth had once outgrown, when her door creaked open, and in walked Joffrey, Sandor at his side.

Sansa dropped the cake, climbed to her feet without difficulty (the handmaids did not see the exercise she did at night: the walking up and down the room, the lunges, lifting heavy candlesticks until her arms felt like they might fall off. She wished to work her stomach as well but it had been some time now since it had not been irretrievably in the way).

"Your grace," Sansa said, attempting to rearrange her gown which she thought was most likely gaping in the front, refusing to close over the dramatic swell of her belly. She stopped fidgeting and rested her hands on it instead, like a pregnant woman, trying to convey to Sandor without words what even words could not. _It is not just me here_ , she thought of saying, but was terrified that Joffrey would take that as a threat, only for Sandor not to understand at all. Instead she said nothing, didn't even look at him, and only waited for the king to speak.

Except Joffrey didn't seem capable of finding words. He only stared at her with a mixture of repulsion, hatred, and (Sansa realized, feeling sick for the first time in months) a strange and twisted lust. It made sense when she thought about it (though she tried not to); Joffrey got off on death, on destruction; what better to rouse his interest than the destruction of Sansa Stark's old body? What better fate for her than the supposed misery of a lifetime of heavy-bodied spinsterhood while she remained here, subject to his whims?

"Hound," Joffrey said at last, his eyes not leaving her rolling figure, following the trail of her hands as they swept the dramatic, convex curve of her belly from beneath her breasts to the hang below her navel, trying to convey in the motion what she could not do with words, hoping Sandor would understand.

Joffrey cleared his throat, looked up at Sandor, his eyes watery. "I fancy a sow this evening. Bring her to my chambers after dinner."

Sandor looked at her finally, his grey eyes meeting her blue ones. His hand was on his sword, Sansa realized. She had only give the word and it would be done with. Joffrey would be dead. And so would they, likely, before they could even leave the tower. Killing with metal was always loud.

 _Not yet_ , Sansa willed him.

"Your grace," Sansa agreed, the remnants of her breakfast ash in her mouth, and the two men left her.

Sansa picked at her food for the rest of the day, hoping word of her lacking appetite might make Joffrey change his mind. But as the sun went down and the night grew dark, the city glowing in yellow patches of candlelight through open windows, Sansa waited for the unlocking, the click and swing of the door.

Instead, there was a knock.

"Come in," Sansa called, unable to open it from the inside.

A key turned, and she heard the wonderful, familiar groan of leather and steel as Sandor took one step inside.

"The king waits for you," Sandor said, his voice hard.

"I know," she replied.

His voice fell to a harsh rasp, a whisper. "You don't have to."

"Yes, I do," she said. She looked up at him, one hand on her belly, one reaching for his face. "It's not just my life I'm saving."

"I know, little bird," he said, and Sansa almost wept to hear that he sounded like he might be on the verge of tears.

 _He knows_.

He accompanied her to Joffrey's chambers, walking with decorum, a foot between them. All she wanted to do was reach out a hand, take his gloved one in hers, squeeze it, tell him everything would be okay.

 _I must be strong,_ she told herself. She idly stroked her stomach, soothing circles, comforting more than just herself. _I must be brave. I must remember what Sandor told me those years ago_.

She could hear his voice again as if he said the words aloud, as if he didn't walk silently, agonizingly, at her side:

_Killing's the sweetest thing there is._

***

Sandor wanted to kill something. Take the sword and cleave the fucker in half. It would be the best thing, the greatest thing, to see that blood fly, to see the bone splinter and the black brains spill and the hatred leave the cunt king's eyes.

Instead he could do nothing, because she had told him to. He was to stand outside the king's door like a statue, jaw clenched, listen to the quiet murmur of Joffrey's voice as he taunted his little bird, abused his little bird, threatened his little bird and the life of his son.

Oh yes, he knew. He wondered if he knew before she did--suspected it when she complained of feeling faint during one of the last walks before her confinement. He had asked even, and she had said she wasn't sure, that her moon blood was not regular enough to reveal a thing, and had told him to wait. He had waited, and she had never been able to tell him.

He only needed to look at her though, the hard jut of her belly that lifted it from its usual hang, the larger breasts, heavy with coming milk. She had been right--just like Lollys Stokeworth, no one suspected a thing, her maidenhead still presumed in place from Pycelle's fumbling explorations and her growing girth presumably doing little to stir the loins of anyone who would care to fuck her.

Joffrey in that room with them was the only thing that prevented Sandor from pushing Sansa back onto her bed and plunging back into her increased softness.

The stupid fucking shit. He could hear him in there, shouting. He tried not to picture it but he couldn't help but imagine her naked in front of the fire, the evidence of his child buried in opulent white flesh, swollen with indulgence. So fucking gorgeous. So fucking his. And now Joffrey was trying to make her his in the only way he knew how--by trying to destroy her. He could imagine the spreading bruises. The tears. He couldn't hear protests so he imagined she was silent, biting back screams, protests. _A sow_ , the king had called her. Sandor vaguely remembered seeing Joffrey pocket an apple at the table, and realized that that fruit had now found its way into Sansa's mouth.

 _I will_ , she had said when Sandor offered to kill him, like she would be the one with the crossbow, like she was the one with the crown. So fucking certain. So fucking confident like she'd never been confident before.

His fingers were itching. Grasping at the handle of his sword. He drew it out a few inches. His hand found the door, fumbled for the handle, his heart beating hard in his mouth--

It creaked open, but not under his own hand.

Sansa looked up at him, her expression unreadable. She was clothed, her too-small gown hanging open at the front, her breasts pulling apart the fabric.

She said nothing. Sandor looked past her into the candlelit room. To the bed where Joffrey lay naked beneath half-drawn covers, seemingly asleep, his arms splayed out each side of his head. A half-eaten apple lay discarded on the side table.

Sandor stared. Waited for a breath, some murmur or movement.

Sansa stroked her stomach, flexed invisible muscle in her arm.

"There's a fruit ship that leaves for Dorne tonight," Sandor whispered, bending down to her, his hands finding her hair. "We sail from there to Tyrosh as Lord and Lady Stokeworth."

Sansa flexed her hands as if they ached, stepped through the door and fastened her gown. Sandor leaned past her and locked the door with his heavy key. Slipped it beneath the wood and into the dead king's room.

He wanted to ask her so many things as they left the keep, slipped out in darkness as the Hound showing Lady Stokeworth to new quarters in the city. _How did you do it?_ he wanted to ask. _Did he hurt you? Did you enjoy it, the killing_? _Did it make your mouth water?_

But he said nothing, instead walking close beside her, having everything to say, deciding nothing was adequate.

At the harbor he stood with her with their meager belongings, jumpy, waiting to board. Said nothing as the sails lifted and the black of night started to fade to grey, and they took off into the calm bay on a ship that smelled of lemons, as the city bells began to ring.


End file.
